


Changing Leads

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Erotica, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:31:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I really wondered whether to make this "mature" or "explicit." By many standards it's vanilla and mild. But it's playing complicated games with some sexual genre norms that are definitely explicit, even as it plays against them. </p><p>This is NOT BDSM. It's also not ordinary D/s. It's not about power contests, or power kink, really. It's about what happens when two people are comfortable moving in and out of control and power roles with each other, specifically because D/s is not being tested or questioned. Yes, there is a "passive partner" and an intiiating or active partner. Yes, there's the giver and the receiver--very non-graphically. But it's about pleasures that occur when that's just a matter resolved and set aside before the lovemaking commences...</p><p>I'm portraying both men as able to switch, and both men as profoundly enjoying both roles. It's not all that graphic, but it's also not remotely mistakable as rose-gauze sexless romance. Have fun. I hope it's worth your time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Leads

Neither man was what could, in a conventional sense, be seen as sexually submissive—or dominant, for that matter. The game involved, the pressure, the show, seemed to misfire, distracting them. But both could, in certain moods, become utterly responsive, receptive, cooperative, reactive…

Fortunately each also had times when they enjoyed beyond belief the right to lead, initiate, to be the decider. To touch more than to be touched—and to determine in both cases the timing. Neither wanted the show, or the surrender, so much as the glorious times of ease and flow, to lead or to follow, but in neither case to contend.

For Mycroft there was a wicked, sweet joy in the times Lestrade ceded him the lead. To have all the control of his years of sexual isolation, in which he had performed and been performed upon, but to also have what he had not had previously—intimacy and tenderness and thundering desire? Ahhhh. God. It was like getting drunk. It was like Sherlock on his increasingly rare benders. It was like the time he’d trained for space flight—emergency training, just in case—and had floated in simulated freefall, without the notorious nausea associated with it.

The first time, Mycroft had come to one of their initial rendezvous weary and still mentally in the character of the Dark Spymaster—a role he played with the confidence of long use. Exhaustion, lingering focus on his work, mental fuzz—all had combined, resulting in him striding silently, stoically down the vast stairway of the dim, afterhours building into the half-lit lobby. Where he might normally have at least raised his chin and nodded greeting when he’d caught Lestrade’s eye, instead he’d maintained contact and borne down on him, a silent predator in a silent marble jungle. He hadn’t noted Lestrade’s riveted expression, the sudden increase in tension as Mycroft prowled toward him. But when he’d leaned forward, grasped Lestrade’s hand, drawn him close for a ritual, if rather Gallic embrace, he’d found himself with fluid desire occupying his arms, as Lestrade melted into him and met his lips with a kiss Mycroft hadn’t even expected.

“God,” Lestrade had sighed. “Oh, my God. You make Darth Vader look like a sissy, Mike. You could give Frank Langella lessons in dark and sexy.” He’d shivered—an entirely spontaneous shiver that set Mycroft’s fingers itching and turned his blood to fire. He’d nuzzled softly into the turn of Mycroft’s neck, between the cup of his ear and the collar of his Crombie. “Damn, that was hot.”

Unable to speak, Mycroft had pulled him closer and sought out Lestrade’s mouth, shaken with the response…and Lestrade had turned his face up to his and welcomed him.

Mycroft was not a stupid man. A bit slow, socially, but far from stupid even then. He knew when he was on to a good thing. He searched for the dark, forbidding note he used to nearly whisper questions to captives in interrogation. “Would you like to follow up on this somewhere more…private?” A world of innuendo hovered in the final word.

Lestrade gasped and clung, and said, softly, “Fuck. Point me at it.”

Mycroft had woven his arm through the turn of Lestrade’s, and led his entirely willing victim out to the waiting Jaguar. They had managed to make it to Mycroft’s Pall Mall flat still dressed and desiring—but only because Mycroft had chosen to demonstrate control and restraint. Lestrade had been, well….

If one were to take the phrase “show willing” to the most extreme of logical extremes, Lestrade had illustrated them. In the hour that followed, Mycroft had taken control in part just to ensure neither of them came to pieces so soon as to qualify as a sexual dysfunction—a real possibility, as each was read, willing, able, and at aching attention. The few times Lestrade, yearning, had moved to hurry things along, Mycroft had quietly, silently countered him, and maintained the slow, exploratory lead he’d established…and Lestrade had matched that pace in sighing contentment.

It had been an experience—the first time Mycroft had ever felt he had free rein to explore, caress, experiment, pursue his own fascination with his lover’s body without fear of missing a cue or failing to respond to Lestrade’s initiative. He could focus on Lestrade’s increasingly animal pleasure—on the reaction to fingers trailed delicately down the crease of his groin and fondling the crushed parchment smooth and delicate skin of his cock. He could kiss his way down Lestrade’s throat, pressing his body close to his lover’s, feeling him along every inch of their contact. He could sweep Lestrade’s arms up over his head, lock them down as he would have in hand-to-hand practice, and trace his eyelids with a tender tongue. He could murmur his intoxication with the sight, scent, taste, touch of his lover, and praise his panting groans. He could cradle Lestrade’s dick in the palm of his hand, and contain the surge and drive of his response.

The night had gone very, very well indeed. In the morning he’d woken to find Lestrade lying in bed, awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, his face in a fool’s grin. His arms had been folded behind his head, his body had sprawled, content and relaxed.

He’d watched, unspeaking. At last Lestrade, without looking away from the white plaster above, had said, chuckling, “Just for the record? Any time, Mike. Any time you want to play Dark and Dangerous Lord of the Underworld? Go for it.”

“I see,” Mycroft had said, smiling. “And if I’d rather you were Lord Pluto?”

Lestrade had breathed in, sudden and sharp and excited, and just barely managed to say, calmly, “Well. Yeah. I think we could give that a run, too. If you’re interested?”

“Try me,” Mycroft had purred.

Which had accounted for the rest of _that_ morning.

Even now, months later and with enough events to start forming a statistical opinion, he could not decide which he loved with a greater, more aching adoration—to guide a trusting, receptive Lestrade to shuddering, wailing orgasm—or to be guided. He could close his eyes and instantly relive the sensation of Lestrade’s hand on his belly, stroking down, and further down, unfaltering, never out of control. He could recover what it felt like to give himself entirely—will and choice set aside in favor of acceptance and response, offering even his sighs and gasps to his lover, hiding nothing, offering no resistance. Not that there was anything to resist. Their kink appeared not to be aimed at anything more disturbing that the setting aside of control, or the accepting of it. Lestrade had never whispered anything more demeaning than, “God in heaven, I love you like this—you’re gorgeous…” Mycroft, in turn, had never pushed to see if he could lead Lestrade through shame, or hesitation. Indeed, the times they experimented and pushed the envelope were the times they weren’t playing the Lord Pluto game—times both minds were in control, and both wills were fully engaged.

Those were good times, too.

But, still, there was something heart-stopping about the times they danced the dance of lead and follow, of giver and given-to.

So now Mycroft stood on the landing of the same building they’d been in when it first happened—that dark lobby, those shadowed stairs. His lover waiting bellow. He asked himself what he wanted tonight, and knew, with a sureness that knotted his gut and tightened his balls. He licked his lips, then said softly, in a small, penetrating voice, “Lord Pluto? Is that you?”

Lestrade looked up, and his face went still, eyes burning. They gazed at each other, the tension climbing, the desire lit. At last Lestrade nodded, and held out one gloved hand. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come down. The chariot’s waiting.”

Mycroft’s feet hurried down the stairs. He descended, never losing his dignity, but never pausing or hesitating. He took Lestrade’s hand, and let himself be pulled close as the man slid his arm around his shoulders. Leaning close, already imagining the moments to come, he said, softly, “Let’s go home, love. Take me home…”


End file.
